


oil in my veins, ember in my heart

by itsmylifekay



Series: cœur de cuir [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Long Hair Bucky, M/M, Skinny Steve, Steampunk, bionic arm bucky, hybrid bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s about the same time that Steve realizes the arm around his shoulder is a little too sturdy that his eyes adjust to the light and he can see the metallic glint of the fingers curled by his neck. His eyes flick up to see the way the metal limb blends into flesh, then catch on the gentle arc of ears poking out of the long hair at the top of the man’s head. His muddled mind slowly comes to the realization that this man must be a hybrid, and one with a bionic arm at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oil in my veins, ember in my heart

 

Steam spills out from rusty metal grates, creating a haze in the air that settles into the streets where cars cut through it with thick tires and glaring lights. Steve’s got his mask strapped on tight, brown leather and brass buckles keeping his lungs from giving out in the early morning industrial smog, collar of his ratty jacket popped up and hands shoved into his pockets as he walks along. The mask gets him a few looks on his way to work, it always does, but his boss is used to it by now, just jerks a thumb over his shoulder and tells him to get to it as soon as he’s through the door.

There are gears and cranks and pulleys all around him, metallic creaking filling up the small space as Steve weaves his way to the very back of the room. The men he passes on the way there ignore him, but not out of malice. They’re just bent over their work, calloused hands on worn tools picking at whatever’s been put in front of them-- there’s no time for pleasantries here, unless you’re looking to be unemployed.

He settles down at the wooden bench in the very back-- his work station that’s currently cluttered with blank watch faces, scratched thermometers and rain gauges, tarnished jewelry, pieces that he’s supposed to paint and polish and make ready for resale. It’s not a glamorous job, but it’s the best he’s got. And he’s glad to have it at all, hopes he can keep it for more than a few months this time. But that’ll depend on how hard the winter is and how well his body holds out, how long he can stretch his money to keep his heat running.

The black pen he uses for watch numbers is sitting in the pencil well at the top of the bench and he picks it up, gives it a cursory twirl, then digs in to finish the day’s quota, knows he can’t afford to lag behind. Not finishing a day’s quota means not getting paid for that day. Not getting paid for a day means a smaller paycheck, less food and heat and other necessities the next month around. And that’s something Steve can’t afford, not with the way his body is, the way he’s already just barely scraping by.

Which is why he doesn’t leave until after dark, fingers stiff and cramped but workbench blessedly empty. He straightens up his things a bit before standing, rechecking the straps that hook around to the back of his head and settling the mask more firmly into place. The last thing he needs is to be getting sick, or having an attack where the boss could see. (He’d told the man from the beginning that it was just a precaution, and gotten the job thanks to poor communication between employers and his ability to write neatly, slim fingers and eye to detail few men from  his class posses.)

There are still men working at their stations when he passes back through the cluttered workshop, beads of sweat on their brows and hands raw from the constant abuse of the more manual labor they do out in the main shop. Steve knows a few of them, one’s a struggling father of two and the other is trying to keep his younger brother out of the shops. They should be home now, with their families, but _no one_ goes home until they’ve done all the work put on their station for that day.

Steve pushes back his bangs, adjusts the straps on his mask and drags a finger where sweat  has collected beneath his jaw, skin chaffing from the material rubbing at it all day. “Hey Paul,” he says.

The bigger man jerks a bit, but doesn’t turn, just keeps his hands going at a steady pace, hammering together metal plates and smoothing out the edges. Steve steps closer. “Need a hand?”

Paul looks down at him and sighs before shaking his head. “I wish, Steve. But this ain’t somethin’ I can let you do, not if I wanna keep my conscious.”

Up close, Steve can see that the material Paul’s working with is smoking, thick fumes escaping as he grinds it against the metal wheel. Even with his mask it wouldn’t be a good idea. And it’s doubtful he’d be able to hammer the metal with enough force to take that task on either.

“How ‘bout you come help me, kid” Simon, the other man Steve knows, says. “We’ll finish up real quick like, and then I’ll help Paul so we’s can all go home.”

Steve glances at Paul, who just shrugs with a sheepish smile, and Steve strides over to Simon’s workstation, glancing over at what he’s got left. It’s some kind of car parts, and Simon hands him a drill before arranging a few of the larger pieces, holding them in place and placing the screw before telling Steve to start up. They finish about half an hour later, and Simon claps him on the shoulder with an oil-smudged grin. “Thankye, kid. Now get on outta here, we’ll finish up.”

“If you’re sure,” Steve says, voice muffled and hot inside the leather. Simon gives his shoulder another squeeze before nudging him towards the door. Steve goes, picking his way back towards the front of the shop.

“See ya later, Steve.” Paul calls, waving to Steve from his station as Steve pushes open the door.

And then he’s back out on the sidewalk, eyes blinking at the florescent lights lining the street edge, piercingly white-blue and a sharp contrast to the dark shadows of his workbench. Steam is no longer pouring from the grates but it’s still oozing in the streets, down back alleys and around his ankles. Cars roll by and someone honks at him, shouts something out the window that he doesn’t quite catch.

He’s just walking beneath an overpass, train clacking on the tracks overhead, hollow whistle ringing in his ears, when he hears footsteps approaching him from behind. But with the rest of the din and his bad ear, he doesn’t hear them until they’re basically on top of him.

“Get out of here, trash!” one of them shouts, and Steve swings around, ready to dodge a punch that doesn’t come. The two men blow past him, set on a figure crouched by a support beam that Steve hadn’t noticed before.

Whoever they’re yelling at doesn’t respond so they get louder, crowding the beam until Steve can’t see anything but their backs. His hands ball into fists. No one deserves the kind of treatment he knows the two men are gearing up to give, knows it’s probably based more on prejudice and ignorance than anything worthwhile.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Hey!” he strides over to them and yanks one on the shoulder, spinning him around.

“Fuck off,” the man growls, pushing at Steve, then his eyes flick down and focus on Steve’s face, his mask, before narrowing dangerously. “You’re just another worthless-”

Steve doesn’t wait for him to finish, just swings and hits him in the jaw, knocking his head to the side and feeling the resulting throb in his knuckles. Before he can blink, a fist is coming for his own face and he barely dodges it, ducks to the ground to use his height as an advantage as another fist swings his way.

Neither of them are people he recognizes, just two more angry faces in a line of many. It’s not surprising. He pants stale, warm air into his mask and waits for their next move.

But it turns out to be more than he’d expected and he’s caught off guard by the sudden surge of violence. One of them manages to shove him off balance and the other grabs at his arms, pinning Steve back against his chest as the other brings a knee up into his ribs. Steve coughs violently, air leaving his lungs, and the men laugh cruelly. They’d done it on purpose. His mask might be uncommon, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what it’s for.

“Look at him,” one of them laughs. “Doesn’t even work right. Filthy.”

Steve glares daggers and lashes out with his legs, catches the man in the kneecap and groin, sending him groaning to the ground. The man holding him curses loudly, jerks him towards the wall and shoves him against it so his head cracks against the dirty cement. Everything goes dark and ringy for a moment, his eyes trying to focus again, but his ears pick up on another sound-- someone growling, low in their throat, animalistic and dangerous. “Let him go.”

He figures it’s whoever the men had initially be after, and their voice is rough like sandpaper, but warm like the sun Steve almost never gets to see. He tries to twist to get a better look, but the hands holding him just shove him back into the wall, scrapes the side of his face into biting cement. The growl turns into something harsher and the man holding him suddenly disappears, thrown to the side with a punch that Steve hears more than sees.

The train is still passing overhead, car after car pulled along the tracks, flashes of light between the connections. The low rumble covers up some of the sound, but Steve can still hear the fight. He tries to push himself up but his limbs don’t want to cooperate and his head is still swimming, making it hard to focus. There’s a solid thud followed by that deep, rumbling growl from before. The man who’d called Steve broken curses and spits on the ground, says something about coming back with friends that Steve doesn’t bother worrying about. Not when there’s a warm hand on the side of his face and gleaming grey-blue eyes looking into his.

“You alright, pal?”

The world swims and gets fuzzy at the edges as he pushes from the wall, trying to stand on his own two feet. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing the blood in his mouth. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

The man looks at him strangely, head cocked to the side. “You sure?”

Steve grunts in response, holding a hand to his head and bringing it back bloody. Which is perfect, as if the collar of his jacket isn’t already stained enough.

The man hisses at the sight. “How hard did they-” but he cuts himself off, steps right into Steve’s space and gets two large hands on either side of his head, pushes him down so he can see where blood is making blond hair go dark.

Steve squirms in the hold. “Said I’m fine,” he mutters, breaking free and swatting at the man’s hands. But the sudden motion has him off balance, falling back until a sturdy arm braces against his shoulders.

“Picture of health.” The man snorts, leading Steve out from beneath the overpass. And it’s about the same time that Steve realizes the arm around his shoulder is a little _too_ sturdy that his eyes adjust to the light and he can see the metallic glint of the fingers curled by his neck. His eyes flick up to see the way the metal limb blends into flesh, then catch on the gentle arc of ears poking out of the long hair at the top of the man’s head. His muddled mind slowly comes to the realization that this man must be a hybrid, and one with a bionic arm at that.

And that would explain why the men from before were so keen on roughing him up. Most everyone looks down on hybrids, thinks anything other than pure human is dirty. It’s why he always gets dirty looks for his mask. He’s imperfect, judged unfit for regular society.

He turns his head to the side to stare at the metal fingers wrapped around his upper arm, marveling at the intricate patterns in the silver material and the way the metal shines ever so slightly in the artificial light spilling from the street. After just a moment he has to force his eyes away (It’s rude to stare, after all. No matter how amazing the design work).

Besides, there’s more pressing matters at hand than the fact that the man beside him is apparently some kind of bionically enhanced hybrid. Like the fact that he has no idea where they’re going and it’s the middle of the night.

“Where…” he mutters, voice trailing off as a bolt of pain shoots through his temple.

When he next opens his eyes the man is right there, crouched down a bit so Steve doesn’t have to crane his neck. There’s a worried furrow between his brows and his ears are pushed further back along his head. “Was gonna take you home,” he explains. “Can you remember where it is?”

Steve glares at him halfheartedly before he realizes that it’s a probably real concern, with the way his head his throbbing. “A few blocks,” he says, gesturing with his hand. “In the junkyard.”

The man nods and straightens back up, leading them forward again.

From then on it’s silent save for the sounds of the city around them, Steve’s harsh breaths muffled by the mask. Every once in a while an inhale will rattle especially loud and Steve will see one of the man’s ears twitch, but he never says anything. Never pushes Steve about it, just keeps walking at a measured peace towards the outskirts of town. And for that he’s grateful. He doesn’t like talking much with the mask on, even if it’s to explain why it’s there. ( _Especially_ to explain why it’s there.)

The sounds of cars and machines die away the closer they get to the junkyard, the steady thud of footsteps on paved sidewalks changing to the careful steps through discarded pieces of steel and wiring and all manner of things that get thrown into the junkyard.

Steve’s place is on the furthest edge of the yard, as far away from the city smog as he could get without making his walk to work impossible. It means he doesn’t have many neighbors, or visitors for that matter, but he’s never really minded. He pushes open the door with a heavy shoulder and ushers the man inside, shutting the door quickly behind them so they don’t let in too much of a draft. There’s no windows in the cramped space and the door is sealed with spare rubber Steve found around the junkyard and it’s not perfect, but it’s just enough that he can take his mask off inside.

He sucks in a grateful breath as soon as the buckles come loose, can feel the prickle in his skin and the angry red lines the leather always leaves behind. He wipes his sleeve across his face to get rid of the worst of the sweat and condensation then flicks on the single bare bulb that hangs in the center of the room. It buzzes angrily, like a fly trapped in glass, but illuminates the small space enough for him to get by.

He sets his mask down next to the rag he uses to clean it then turns back to his guest, who’s already staring back at him with an odd expression on his face, one that Steve hasn’t seen in years-- a mix of confusion and tenderness. No pity in sight.

He doesn’t really want to dwell on that now, though, doesn’t know quite what to do with the information and is honestly too tired to even try. So he decides to do some looking of his own.

And with the light directly on him, Steve is able to appreciate just how striking the other man is. Dark hair long and wild, spilling around his shoulders and framing his face, equally dark ears poking out from the tangled mess. His eyes are a luminous grey-blue and Steve can just make out a tail twitching in the shadow created by the man’s back. The metal arm is glinting at his side, metal clinking when his hand flexes.

He’s beautiful. Gorgeous. And Steve looks up to meet curious eyes, sees a flash of surprise in their depths before it’s quickly schooled away.

A hand is extended to him, the flesh and blood one, and Steves takes it, gives it a firm shake and admires the sharp canines that the man displays when he grins.

“Bucky Barnes,” The man says.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve says back, giving a grin of his own.

Their hands release and Bucky’s still looking at him, so Steve doesn’t bother looking away either, just lets his eyes trace over more of Bucky’s form. He’s wearing ratty clothes similar to Steve’s, although darker in color and just a bit less torn, like maybe he hasn’t had them quite as long as Steve’s had his. There are heavy boots on his feet, black with silver buckles and thick soles. The silver matches the hooks on Bucky’s jacket and the metal of his arm.

All in all he looks pretty normal, maybe a little less grimey than most of the people Steve sees living in this part of town, but the thing that confuses Steve most is that he can’t tell from Bucky’s clothes what his job is-- which is unusual. Usually it’s easy to tell what people do based on what they wear. Then again, if Bucky’s in this part of town and not stationed somewhere or being kept at some mansion with the elites, it’s possible he’s unemployed and living on the streets...

The idea has his chest tightening and he takes a quick inventory of his place, imagines where he’d put another person and how they’d get by on his meager income.

“You alright there, pal?” Bucky asks, pulling Steve from his thoughts.

Steve blinks to refocus and turns to look into Bucky’s eyes, which have somehow gotten even more intense in the passing minute. “I’m fine,” he says.

Bucky reaches out and puts a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder, thumbs over the skin there. “You’ve got blood running down your neck, and dried around your mouth.” He pulls his hand away so Steve can see the red on his fingers. “Got a first aid kit?”

Steve shakes his head then pulls off his jacket, balls it up to press it to his head before Bucky reaches out to stop him.

“Don’t, it’s dirty. You’ll get an infection.”

Steve stares at him blankly, eyebrows pulling together. “I washed it last week. Saying I’m not clean?”

“No, saying you should use sterile things with cuts like that.” He steps closer, until their chests bump together, then pulls Steve’s head down like he had earlier. His metal fingers are cold against Steve’s temple. “Mind if I get a little unconventional?”

“I guess n-” The hands around his head tighten and Steve jumps in surprise when he feels something wet and warm brush over his scalp. It’s not hard to connect the dots and his knees get a little weak at the thought that it’s Bucky’s tongue pulling at his hair, creating a dull throb as he cleans over raw skin. Part of him wants to squirm, wants to insist he’s fine and push Bucky away, but he senses that this is more than just Bucky trying to take care of him, something a little less demeening and a lot more important.

So Steve stays perfectly still as Bucky works, breathing through his nose to keep in the little sounds that want to escape. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long. Bucky steps back with a smug grin on his face, a brightness to his eyes that looks something like happiness and surprise.

“There, should be fine so long as you don’t touch it the rest of the night.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, still a little stunned. (The moment had felt too charged for two strangers, but that could just be the head wound talking.) “I think.”

Bucky laughs loudly and his tail twitches out from behind his back, ears perking up and sharp, slightly elongated canines flashing from between his lips. Then, he points to his mouth and explains, “Comes with the package, special sterilizing saliva. Not like normal cats though, a perk of being part human. Was supposed to work in a hospital, originally, help out patients and things like that.”

“Oh,” Steve says softly. He knew hybrids were created to do different jobs, but he’s never heard of special traits being added based on those occupations, thought hybrids just had the ears and tail.

Bucky seems to catch onto his thoughts because he shrugs and says, “Yeah, they don’t tell you that part do they? Just focus on all the stuff that’s wrong-looking and ignore everything else.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, atmosphere falling slightly before Steve quietly adds, “Not wrong-looking. Just different.” Bucky looks at him like he just said he could fly.

“Yeah,” he finally agrees. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

They don’t say much after that, Bucky watching quietly as Steve gets a cloth to wipe the blood from his neck and face. He spares a concerned sound when Steve starts coughing and spits out more blood, but quiets when he sees it’s just from a reopened split lip. (And Steve definitely doesn’t feel his heart tighten at the real concern on Bucky’s face.)

It’s not until an hour later, when the moon is a half-hidden sliver high up in the sky, that Bucky takes his leave-- his smile soft and his hand warm as he squeezes Steve’s shoulder and slips out the door.

Steve cleans his mask, sets it back on the table, then settles down in his pile of threadbare blankets to finally fall asleep, staring at his ceiling and seeing gleaming eyes and a crooked grin in the darkness.

/*\\*/*\\*/*\

The next morning he’s up before the sun as usual, smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes and strapping on his mask before heading out the door. The night before seems almost like a dream except for the way his head is still throbbing and the crusty layer of blood that’s taken up residence on the side of his jacket. And...as he looks up from pulling his door firmly closed (not bothering with a lock, there’s nothing worth stealing and no one comes out this far), the glint of metal and flick of familiar ears puts the experience even more firmly in the not-dream category. Because Bucky is definitely standing just a few feet away, waiting on the opposite side of the path from him with that same sharp grin.

Steve steps away from the door and cocks his head to the side. “Bucky?”

“The one and only.” His eyes twinkle as he waits for Steve to walk over, swings an arm over his shoulders when he’s within reach. “Where you off to this early?”

“Why are you in front of my house this early?” Steve shoots back, not breaking stride as they make their way through the junkyard. “Because I think that’s more worrying than me going to work.”

“You go to work this early?” Bucky asks, and Steve doesn’t miss the way his own question has gone unanswered. “What do you do? I thought most of the working class didn’t have to report ‘til the sun was up at least.”

“I’m not working class,” Steve says somewhat incredulously. Because yeah, the system is shitty and by his parentage he _should_ be working class, but anyone with common sense would know where society said he belonged. If the mask obscuring half his face wasn’t clue enough, then the rattle in his lungs and the way his bones showed through his skin should’ve answered the question. Working class? No. Steve’s status as classless had been assured at birth-- when the doctors had looked at his mother and explained how the tiny thing in their hands wasn’t worth saving. His mother had refused euthanasia, obviously, but he still doesn’t have much of a life-- not how society defines one anyway.

But he’s still scraping by, hanging on if not just to be a thorn in society’s side, a constant reminder that they’d condemned him to death at birth but twenty some years later and he’s still alive and kicking, fixing their shitty things and making a place for himself in the world.

“Then what-” Bucky starts, then stops, looks down at Steve carefully. “Are you one of those new-age centers that’s trying to make a point by living below their status?”

“A new-age... _No_.” Steve shakes his head. Honestly. The things coming out of Bucky’s mouth this morning just keep getting more and more ridiculous. Because really, he has to get it _eventually,_ it’s not even that hard, no one else has ever had a problem seeing where he’s been placed at least. And it’s like rubbing salt in the wound to have to explain why he’s been shunted to the bottom of society, has been filled with righteous fury for so long that sometimes he wonders how his soul hasn’t burnt out with it already.

There’s still a confused furrow between Bucky’s brow when he opens his mouth to say something else, and Steve doesn’t even need to hear it. Can tell it’s just going to be another incorrect attempt at placing him somewhere higher than he is. Another lofty expectation he’ll have to explain away with the capital’s words bitter poison between his own teeth.

“Bucky,” he says sharply. “Look at me, look at my face, do you see this?” He hooks a finger beneath one of the straps of his mask and tugs at it harshly. “Might as well be branded with the word _Classless_ right across my forehead.”

Bucky’s eyes go hard, but Steve just glares right back, unflinching, because he’s taken enough shit in his life for the way he was born, and like hell is he going to be put down for actually staying _in_ his place for once.

“Steve, that is absolutely ridiculous.”

Steve shrugs. “Tell it to the rest of the world, but I’ve been screaming it for years and no one ever listens.”

“Like last night you mean.” Bucky’s voice is low and heavy, almost like he’s angry and Steve turns to get a better look at his face, and yeah, his eyes are narrowed and he’s got this intense gaze focused right on Steve. “You get in fights like that often?”

It’s obvious Bucky already knows the answer, but Steve lifts his chin regardless, sets his shoulders and says, “Some things are worth fighting for.”

The words hang between them until Bucky’s shoulders finally sag, ears relaxing from where they’d been pressed tight to his head. Steve lets some of his own tension go.

Because he’d meant what he’d said, on the surface and the meaning underneath. Some things are worth fighting for, some _people_ are worth fighting for. And Bucky had been one of those people, still _is_ in Steve’s books.

They’re already out on the street and Steve’s thankful there aren’t too many people out, just other classless like themselves who give them their space, focused on their own path to work and many still half-asleep wandering through the hazy sidewalks, grates still leaking the night’s smog across city lanes; it’s beautiful in all the ways it’s not, the lonely figures and the smothered sky, quiet and deceptively still.

When they make it to Steve’s building, Bucky gives his shoulder a squeeze and saunters to a nearby alley, settling himself down and staring at Steve with those same gleaming eyes until Steve forces himself to turn away and slip inside, walking through the crowded space with his head still back out in the street. His mask is hot and uncomfortable from all the talking, the chaffing’ll be worse than usual for sure, but somehow he can’t bring himself to regret it-- just adjusts the straps a little and gets to work, fingers moving just the slightest bit faster with the promise of something (some _one_ ) waiting for him at the end of the day.

/*\\*/*\\*/*\

“You’ve got grease _all_ over the side of your face,” Bucky smirks, pushing a thumb across Steve’s cheek to prove his point. “The boss have you on tiny-hand duty again?”

Steve glares in Bucky’s direction and doesn’t even bother to wipe his face (doing so would just make Bucky laugh harder) and besides, it’s not like Steve isn’t used to being covered in grime. But yes, Steve had in fact been in the main area of the shop today, sticking his arm down into various machinery that most of the other men couldn’t fit their hands into, pulling out screws or cleaning things or whatever else needed to be done in the cramped and unnecessarily dirty places he’d had to work with. Bucky calls it tiny-hand duty. Steve calls it hell.

The other men always try to help him out, give him tips so he can go faster, take over where they can so he can disappear into the back for awhile, but there’s only so much they can do and Steve already knows the next few days are going to be extra miserable. There’s cuts and bruises all over his hands from not being able to see what he was working with, and he’s sure that his mask will be stained black when he takes it off. His lungs are already painful and the coming days are sure to be filled with strained coughing and nights waking up with black on his lips.

And Bucky knows all that, knows it because he’s lived it right by Steve’s side for about a year now, has kissed the cuts on Steve’s hands, licked over them with a careful tongue before biting playfully at the pads, has rubbed Steve’s back in the middle of the night and wiped blackened saliva away with the sleeve of his shirt. So Bucky knows. He knows that it’s going to be difficult, but he also knows that Steve doesn’t want him to change, doesn’t want him to coddle or get angry, just wants to be treated the same and like he can do the same things as anybody else.

Bucky gets it. Bucky respects those wishes in the same ways Steve respects all the idiosyncrasies that Bucky brings to the table-- from the way his metal arm needs to be greased once a month (a sticky, smelly process that neither of them particularly enjoy), to how sensitive his ears are, Steve learning to speak softer and not bang around so much when Bucky’s had a long day.

It’s hard sometimes, but they get by. Bucky makes money where he can, accepts whatever odd jobs he can find and even goes outside the city every now and again to bring stuff back from the woods, a practice Steve disagreed with until Bucky explained that it was allowed, the one small concession the government had granted the hybrids-- they weren’t _people_ after all, so they were allowed to hunt. Steve had wanted to be sick when Bucky’d explained that one, but he can’t deny how often it’s saved them from going hungry when his wages didn’t stretch quite far enough.

They save on heat now, too, with Bucky a warm presence at Steve’s side to keep the chill away, watching to make sure Steve remembers to eat and keep his mask clean and get enough sleep. They look out for each other, stand up for each other, and even though they’ve only known each other a little over a year Steve can’t even imagine his life before Bucky, can’t imagine what he was doing with himself and how he passed the time. (He wonders if Bucky feels the same, sometimes, when it’s the middle of the night and Bucky’s got him pressed tight to his chest and whispers _‘I love you’_ s quietly into his hair like it’s some great secret.)

They pass the walk back to their ramshackle home in silence, hands together and eyes looking up towards the sky, the moon a golden orb marred by the city smog, Bucky’s arm reflecting the meager light it gives. The door shuts behind them, the sky disappearing, and then Steve’s got two hands on either side of his face, deft fingers working at the buckles of his mask before tugging it free with a slightly wet sound that is not at all promising.

The inside of the mask is black and damp with condensation.

Bucky lets out a curse, pulls a rag out of somewhere to wipe at Steve’s face. “Gonna be cleaning black off your face for days now, huh Stevie?” He’s trying to keep his tone light but Steve can easily hear the worry behind it.

“Yeah, probably.” He pushes Bucky’s hand away so he can cough into his own shoulder, clearing his throat as best he can before shrugging. “That’s how it usually goes.”

Bucky’s eyes sadden at the resignation, but he understands, just sighs and straightens up, throws the rag back onto the table and walks over to the hot plate in the corner of the room they use for cooking. A pot of water gets to boiling as they both strip out of their clothes-- Steve’s covered in grease, and Bucky’s smelling vaguely of the trash he’d been hauling across town.

They eat dinner at the table, rickety enough they can’t even set their bowls on it but it’s there all the same, pressing against their thighs as they eat and offering a scattering of items for their eyes to trace over as they sip at warm broth and chew at undercooked vegetables. Finally, when they’re done, Steve takes the dishes to wash and Bucky sets to making the bed, shuffling the blankets around so the ones they’ll be sleeping on aren’t the ones they slept on the night before.

It’s already dark when Steve comes back inside, skin chilled from the midnight cold and dishes clinking softly as he sets them back in their place.

“Bucky?” he calls quietly-- it’s unusual but not unheard of for Bucky to fall asleep without him, and if Bucky’s tired enough to pass out like that...Steve doesn’t want to wake him.

But Bucky answers him back, voice clear and awake from across the room. “Over here.”

“Couldn’t wait to turn the lights off?” Steve huffs, now having to shuffle over to their makeshift bed, praying he doesn’t trip on the way. There’s no response and the silence makes him curious, hands reaching out to find Bucky in the dark and pausing slightly at what they find.

“Buck?” he asks. Quietly, and slowly, because he has an idea of what’s going on but doesn’t want to ruin it.

Because there’s nothing but warm skin beneath his fingers and he can feel Bucky’s quick heartbeat as a steady pulse beneath his palm.

“Hey, Stevie.” Bucky murmurs back. His hands come up to Steve’s hips, draw him in and pull him down until he’s straddling Bucky’s thighs where they’re settled in the nest of blankets on the floor. “Love you,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“Course, I do.” Steve presses his fingers a little harder into Bucky’s chest, right over his heart. “Same as I love you.”

The words are barely out before Bucky’s lips are on his, kissing the final syllable from Steve’s mouth and sighing into him, pulling him even closer and biting at his bottom lip. (When they’d first done this, Steve had been a bit apprehensive about Bucky’s canines, but Bucky’s control has proven nearly impeccable and sometimes Steve doesn’t even mind the little pricks of pain that come from Bucky biting down too hard, the marks that are left on his skin and the redness of his lips after.)

But for all the they’ve done in bed, the kissing and the touching and even the sex...Bucky’s never been completely naked. And it’s understandable. Hybrids have been used in the sex trade for generations, and nudity isn’t just a sign of trust but often of ownership, a loss of agency. It’s a complex thing that Steve doesn’t entirely understand, but respects nonetheless. And he’s never pushed. Not once. Because he knows something about expectations and deeper meanings, and it’s why he stands up now, stands up and makes his way slowly through the dark back to the table, picks up his mask and brings it back over to where Bucky’s waiting for him in bed-- breath caught nervously in his chest until Steve presses the familiar leather into his hands before guiding them up to his face.

“ _Steve,_ ” Bucky breathes, fingers trembling where they touch the skin of Steve’s cheeks.

“It’s alright,” Steve hushes. “It’s alright, I want this. I promise, wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

Bucky lets out a soft sound at that, something like a whimper that neither of them will bring up in the morning, and then his hands are moving, adjusting buckles and straps until the mask is sliding around Steve’s face, tightening into position so it can stay on its own before Bucky pulls away.

They’re tarnished brass and gleaming silver, worn brown leather and soft black ears, different in so many ways but still the same. And even if they both mourn the loss of Steve’s mouth for a few minutes, miss the intimacy of biting lips and teasing tongues, before long they’re both groaning into each other, Bucky’s mouth on Steve’s neck and Steve’s hands in Bucky’s hair.

They’re warm against each other and the blankets, the air cool around them, and Steve knows somewhere above them the moon is still hanging lazily in the sky, shining steadfast through the haze like it has and will for years to come. He feels Bucky’s ears flick against his hands when he tugs at the brown strands between his fingers, back arching as Bucky begins sliding metal fingers in to prep him. The digits are slightly cool, but warm up quickly, and Steve whines at the feeling of being opened, of Bucky over and inside him, covering and filling him up.

And it’s perfect, when Bucky finally sinks in. Because for the first time Steve’s hands can feel all of Bucky’s skin warm and soft beneath his fingers, his ankles can feel the brush of Bucky’s tail where they’re crossed at the small of his back, and before long the push pull of muscles has him groaning, coming out muffled through the leather covering his mouth. Bucky leans up at the sound, noses under Steve’s jaw before licking a stripe at the very edge of the mask, it’s _shhh_ and _I love you_ and _don’t be afraid._

They’re both exposed and bared open, eyes blown wide with lust and love and realization as Bucky’s hips drag slowly against Steve’s, grind into him as deep as he can.

Because neither of them are perfect, they’re both castaways in the larger scope of things, but together they are _everything._

And as Steve lets out a last moan into the mask, coming between them as Bucky presses kisses along his throat, he can’t help the little shiver that goes up his spine at the knowledge that they’re as close as they’ll ever be. And he knows Bucky feels it too by the groan he lets out, the way he thrusts one final time and bites at Steve’s neck, filling him up and collapsing on top of him with a sigh before starting up a rumbling purr when thin fingers pet behind his ears, own hand coming up to trace the straps of leather looping behind Steve’s head.

“Love you,” he mumbles, rolling them over so Steve’s cradled to his chest.

And Steve doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, just settles his palm right over Bucky’s heart and hums quietly into the calm.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr too, same username. come say hi if you'd like! ^_^


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